


This isn't the coda you're looking for.

by nomelon



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ballet, Brotherly Affection, Brothers, Crack, Feminine Sam, Gen, Humor, Magic, Silly, ballerina!Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-23
Updated: 2010-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-06 14:10:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nomelon/pseuds/nomelon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ballerina!Sam. Nuff said.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This isn't the coda you're looking for.

**Author's Note:**

> _In ballet, a coda is typically the ending, or "finale", of a suite of dances known as the Grand Pas or Grand Pas d'action, and brings the suite to a close._

It had been a long time since Bobby had seen Dean look so small and defeated. Dean's arms were folded tight, his shoulders hunched like he was in pain, and his face was scrubbed red-raw and blotchy. It couldn't be good. Having a Winchester show up on your doorstep unannounced was never good.

"Bobby," Dean said, like Bobby was his salvation. "You gotta help me, man," he said, his voice scratched and wavering all over the place. "I can't... I just can't take it anymore."

"Jesus, Dean, come in. What's wrong? Where's Sam?"

Dean stepped in close, closer than Bobby was entirely comfortable with, considering they were two manly, badass, hunter types. Dean made a strange high-pitched little flutter of a sound in the back of his throat. There was a sparkle of hysteria in his red-rimmed eyes as he grabbed Bobby by the lapels and hauled him in until they were nose to nose.

For a horrible moment, Bobby was stone-cold certain that Dean was about to kiss him.

"He's... by the car," Dean whispered. Bobby started backing away, trying to put a little distance between them, but Dean just shuffled right along with him, keeping in close, his desperation shining bright. "Bobby, you gotta... _Please_. I mean, I can't..."

"Okay, son," Bobby said, patting Dean's shoulder until Dean eased up and backed off a pace. "I'll help you out."

Dean nodded raggedly and rubbed a hand over his face. "Yeah, Bobby," he nodded, his voice small. "Okay, man. Sorry. It's just... I haven't really been sleeping since... Well."

Bobby frowned and nodded. It wasn't like Dean to act like this, except in the most extreme circumstances, and then only because he'd gone and tied himself up in knots over his family again and done something monumentally stupid.

"Whatever it is, we'll get through it."

After all, Bobby thought, they'd saved Dean from an eternity in hell and stopped Sam from ending the world in the process, then tricked an army of demons into destroying themselves, saving the world and the afterlife in one fell swoop.

So, really. How bad could it possibly be?

"Bobby!" cried a booming voice from the front door.

Bobby looked up to see Sam Winchester, framed in the doorway with the late afternoon sun behind him, wearing a huge, beaming smile on his face.

Bobby couldn't help but notice Sam was also wearing a tutu. A pink one. With matching ribbons in his hair. His huge feet were crammed into ballet slippers, also pink.

"Oh," Bobby said. "Sam." Bobby opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, and scratched helplessly at his scalp under his cap. He glanced at Dean, just in time to see Dean crumple into laughter, clutching at his sides, fresh tears pouring from his eyes.

Oh, Bobby thought. I see.

Dean's laughter didn't look like fun. He was curled up, his arms clamped around his ribs, whimpering rather than guffawing. It was obvious he'd been at it a while, and it looked kind of painful.

"Oh," Bobby said again, feeling a tremble of laughter in his belly. He clamped down on it, hard, and cleared his throat. "Uh. Okay. How... how long has he been like this?"

"Since _Tuesday_," Dean wailed, sinking onto the couch and curling up on his side, choking out his laughter into a cushion.

Bobby glanced at the calendar hanging on his wall. Today was Thursday. Dean had been dealing with this for three days all by himself. No wonder the boy could hardly breathe.

"Bobby," Dean said, pushing himself upright, wiping his eyes on his sleeve, "do you have any idea how hard it was for me to find him a tutu and shoes that _fit_?"

"Aren't they great?" Sam said, raising up onto his tippytoes and executing a remarkably delicate little double turn. He whipped his leg around and extended his foot to show the slippers off to their best advantage.

"Uh. I, uh. Yeah?" Bobby said. He bit on his lip and cast a little glance at Dean, looking for some kind of help, _any_ kind of help, but Dean had lost it completely, hiding his face in a cushion, his shoulders shaking silently.

"What the hell happened?" Bobby asked.

"We met this lovely girl," Sam said.

"Witch," Dean choked out.

"She runs an antique store," Sam said.

"Sold people their dreams as a sideline," Dean said, breathing slow and deep, and blinking a lot. "Made them come true. Some of the dreams were getting a little out of hand, so we were trying to put her out of business."

"And whose dream was _this_?" Bobby asked.

Very, very slowly, Dean raised his hand in the air. He couldn't look at either Bobby or Sam, instead staring pointedly out the window. He bit on the inside of his cheeks and sniffed a couple of times, clearly trying to hold it together, but as Sam merrily pirouetted his way across Dean's line of sight, Dean lost it completely, dissolving into a useless puddle of snorting little giggles.

Sam was grinning happily, spinning his way across Bobby's cluttered floor, avoiding stacks of books and old engine parts, leaping over the coffee table and landing with a low dip and a flourish.

"I figured because I'm so tall," he was saying, his arms held in front of him in a perfect circle, fingertips just brushing, "that the Balachine Method was the way to go. I just found Vaganova a little too restrictive, you know?"

Bobby's face twitched. "That's great, kid," he said, rushing the words out. He started backing away, his chest tight with impending laughter. "I just have to go, uh, check on... a thing."

"Sure thing, Bobby," Sam said with a good-natured little grin.

Bobby bolted for the back door, his feet tripping over the faded linoleum, and fell out into the dusty back yard, the screen door banging behind him.

He bit on his fist and leaned up against the wall of the house, breathing slow and easy through his nose, his eyes screwed shut.

He was a full grown man. An experienced hunter. He was a serious, grizzled, old junkyard dog.

He didn't get the giggles over grown men wearing frilly pink tutus.

He just didn't.

Unfortunately, Sam wasn't making it easy on him. There were a couple of bumps and the sound of rustling from deep within the house, then Sam's cheerful voice could be heard clearly.

"Dean! Dance with me, Dean! You'll love it, it's like flying. I'll show you how to do a grand jeté! Come on, Dean. Don't be shy! I'll catch you!"

That was it. Even Bobby Singer had his limits. He doubled over with laughter, wheezing and puffing, slapping at his thigh.

"No, Dean. You have to point your toes like this, see?"

From inside the house, there was a snort of laughter and the rapid sound of footfalls, the solid thud of heavy work boots, heading Bobby's way.

Dean shot out the back door, howling with laughter, and made a break for it, darting between the wrecks of old cars. Sam wasn't far behind, leaping and twirling his way after Dean, calling his name and telling Dean how he'd make a wonderful dancer if he only applied himself more.

Bobby sat down, right there on the back porch, getting a splinter in his ass for his trouble, and tried to get his breathing under control. There was a loud crash and a startled yelp from behind the shell of an old Dodge pick-up, raising a huge cloud of dust as a pink ribbon sailed gaily over the roof of the truck.

Bobby hid his face in his hands and laughed 'til he thought he'd crack a rib. One thing was abundantly clear: those Winchester boys would be the death of him.

"Bobby, man, _do_ something," Dean hollered, sounding desperate.

"Okay, okay," Bobby called back, wiping at his eyes and trying to pull himself together. He hauled himself to his feet and disappeared back inside the house.

Sure he'd do something. Of course he would. He'd said he'd help, and he was a man of his word.

Right after he checked to see if there was any film left in his camera.

-end-


End file.
